


The Rabbit and the Ram

by colonel_bastard



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magic, Comfort Food, Community: comment_fic, Gen, Potions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-26
Updated: 2014-02-26
Packaged: 2018-01-13 19:30:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1238260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/colonel_bastard/pseuds/colonel_bastard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hannibal does not scry his magic.  He makes it from scratch, cooks it right here in his kitchen, and in some ways, Will envies him for that.  He never has to let it get inside his head.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Rabbit and the Ram

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a prompter that wanted to see Will and Hannibal as magical practitioners. 
> 
> Set sometime in the first half of season one, before the shit hits the fan.

There are two pots simmering on Hannibal’s stove. One is steeping mulled wine. The other is brewing a fortification elixir. 

“Tell me about it,” Hannibal says.

The words are already starting to sound familiar— though Will can never figure out if they’re a suggestion or a command. He uses the heel of his hand to scrub at his eyes. 

“There were three of them,” he mutters. “Three girls. He took their eyes, ears, and tongues.” 

“See no evil,” Hannibal remarks. 

He doesn’t need to finish the expression. Will nods his head in agreement. 

“Jack thinks they were being silenced,” he sighs. “But I think they were being... shielded, from something. From evil.” 

“By removing their ability to comprehend it,” Hannibal says. “He preserved their innocence.” He gives Will a keen look. “Is that what you saw?” 

Will’s hand drops instinctively to his back pocket, his fingers finding the rectangular outline of the mirror case. The gesture does not go unnoticed— Hannibal tracks it with his eyes, like a cat watching a bird. 

“Catoptromancy is a tricky thing, Will,” he cautions. “It can make a man fear his own reflection.” 

Will doesn’t answer right away. He just watches Hannibal’s calm, elegant hands as they meticulously strip the leaves and blooms from a bundle of fresh yarrow. The harvest is collected in a white marble mortar, and when the basin is full Hannibal brings the pestle to bear, filling the air with a sharp, sweet scent as he grinds the herb to release its oil. 

_Yarrow. For courage._

“I have it under control,” Will mumbles absently, as Hannibal sweeps the contents of the mortar into the bubbling elixir. 

“For now,” Hannibal concedes. “But you must remember that when you gaze long into an abyss, the abyss gazes also into you.” 

Crystallomancy would really be a wiser choice for scrying crime scenes. Hydromancy, even. Both allow the practitioner to keep a certain distance from the subject, to maintain the boundaries between vision and reality. But neither offers the clarity, the focus, the perfect insight of catoptromancy. Will performs his scrying by looking into a mirror. He looks into himself to see his subjects, and in that way, he can understand them. He sees through their eyes. He knows what they know. 

And every time it gets a little bit harder to figure out which side of the mirror he’s really on. 

Hannibal gives the mulled wine a leisurely stir, sniffing the steam with a critical expression. After some consideration he adds another stick of cinnamon to the pot— and one to the elixir as well. 

“Aside from being an essential kitchen spice,” he smiles at Will. “Cinnamon also has many protective and healing properties.” 

Hannibal does not scry his magic. He makes it from scratch, cooks it right here in his kitchen, and in some ways, Will envies him for that. He never has to let it get inside his head. All he has to do is combine the ingredients— but then again, that takes a skill all its own. Will could spend a week in this kitchen and not produce anything more complex than a simple locating powder. Hannibal could probably spend an hour at his stove and come back with the power of flight in a bottle. 

From the refrigerator Hannibal retrieves a small parcel wrapped in brown paper, and as he opens it on the countertop Will sees that it contains a cold, raw heart the size of his fist. 

“That’s a little big,” he frowns. “Doesn’t this potion usually call for a rabbit’s heart?” 

“Usually,” Hannibal acknowledges, massaging the organ gently to warm and soften it. “But I often make adaptations to the traditional recipes. In this case I’ve found that the stronger the heart, the stronger the remedy.” His hands squeeze in a rhythm almost like a pulse. “I thought you could use something a little more potent than rabbit. This is the heart of a ram.”

Will needs all the help he can get. He’s not going to argue. 

With all the care of a mother tucking her child into bed, Hannibal eases the heart down into the embrace of the simmering elixir. Although the liquid isn’t even boiling, the magic dissolves the organ almost immediately, suffusing the whole brew with its living essence. Will can smell it but he can’t describe it. It’s the smell of something powerful, something rich and deep. _Chicken soup for the soul,_ he thinks wryly, and calling it that makes him realize how much he wants it, something warm and hearty to soothe and strengthen his weary being. He’s practically salivating as Hannibal retrieves a matched pair of wine glasses from the cabinet. 

With a small silver ladle, Hannibal measures out their potations, one part elixir to two parts mulled wine. The glass is hot when he places it into Will’s hand. 

“To your health, Will,” he says sincerely. 

Will taps Hannibal’s glass with his own. “Yours, too.” 

They drink. The effect is instantaneous. Will feels heat and strength flooding through his body, starting in his belly and radiating out to his limbs until he can feel it in his fingertips. Without even meaning to, he closes his eyes and gives a low, bone-deep groan of relief. 

“Strong enough for you?” Hannibal inquires from the darkness. 

Will opens his eyes again with a chuckle. “Must have been one hell of a ram.” 

“A real fighter,” Hannibal affirms. “But you needed the heart more than he did.” 

Will takes another pull from the glass, then raises it in a toast. 

“Here’s to his sacrifice.” 

Hannibal smiles and lifts his glass in silent accord. 

 

 

 

_________end.


End file.
